the Third Secret (2005) (6 page)

“This is disturbing,” Michener whispered, his eyes still on the scene in the Riserva.

Cardinal Ngovi stood close but said nothing. Instead the African grasped him by the arm and led him away, toward a row of shelves. Ngovi was one of the few in the Vatican he and Clement trusted without question.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Ngovi.

“I was summoned.”

“I thought Clement was at the North American College for the evening.” He kept his voice hushed.

“He was, but he left abruptly. He called me half an hour ago and told me to meet him here.”

“This is the third time in two weeks he’s been in there. Surely people are noticing.”

Ngovi nodded. “Thankfully, that safe contains a multitude of items. Hard to know for sure what he’s doing.”

“I’m worried about this, Maurice. He’s acting strange.” Only in private would he breach protocol and use first names.

“I agree. He dismisses all my inquiries with riddles.”

“I’ve spent the last month researching every Marian apparition ever investigated. I’ve read account after account taken from witnesses and seers. I never realized there were so many earthly visits from heaven. He wants to know the details on each one, along with every word the Virgin uttered. But he will not tell me why. All he does is keep returning here.” He shook his head. “It won’t be long before Valendrea learns of this.”

“He and Ambrosi are outside the Vatican tonight.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll find out. I wonder sometimes if everybody here doesn’t report to him.”

The snap of a lid closing echoed from inside the Riserva, followed by the clank of a metal door. A moment later Clement appeared. “Father Tibor must be found.”

Michener stepped forward. “I learned from the registry office of his exact location in Romania.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening or the following morning, depending on the flights.”

“I want this trip kept among the three of us. Take a holiday. Understand?”

He nodded. Clement’s voice had never risen above a whisper. He was curious. “Why are we talking so low?”

“I was unaware that we were.”

Michener detected irritation. As if he wasn’t supposed to point that out.

“Colin, you and Maurice are the only men I trust implicitly. My dear friend the cardinal here cannot travel abroad without drawing attention—he’s too famous now—too important. So you are the only one who can perform this task.”

Michener motioned into the Riserva. “Why do you keep going in there?”

“The words draw me.”

“His Holiness John Paul II revealed the third Fatima message to the world at the start of the new millennium,” Ngovi said. “Beforehand, it was analyzed by a committee of priests and scholars. I served on that committee. The text was photographed and published worldwide.”

Clement did not respond.

“Perhaps a counsel with the cardinals could help with whatever the problem may be?” Ngovi said.

“It is the cardinals I fear the most.”

Michener asked, “And what could you hope to learn from an old man in Romania?”

“He sent me something that demands my attention.”

“I don’t recall anything coming from him,” Michener said.

“It was in the diplomatic pouch. A sealed envelope from the nuncio in Bucharest. The sender said he’d translated the Virgin’s message for Pope John.”

“When?” Michener asked.

“Three months ago.”

Michener noted that was just about the time Clement began visiting the Riserva.

“Now I know he spoke the truth, so I no longer desire for the nuncio to be involved. I need you to go to Romania and judge Father Tibor for yourself. Your opinion is important to me.”

“Holy Father—”

Clement held up his hand. “I do not intend to be questioned on this matter any further.” Anger laced the declaration, an unusual emotion for Clement.

“All right,” Michener said. “I’ll find Father Tibor, Holiness. Rest assured.”

Clement glanced back into the Riserva. “My predecessors were so wrong.”

“In what way, Jakob?” Ngovi asked.

Clement turned back, his eyes distant and sad. “In every way, Maurice.”

EIGHT

9:45 P.M.

Valendrea was enjoying his evening. He and Father Ambrosi had left the Vatican two hours ago and rode in an official car to La Marcello, one of his favorite bistros. Its veal heart with artichokes was, without question, the best in Rome. The
ribollita,
a Tuscan soup made from beans, vegetables, and bread, reminded him of childhood. And the dessert of lemon sorbet in a decadent mandarin sauce was enough to ensure that any first-timer would return. He’d suppered there for years at his usual table toward the rear of the building, the owner fully aware of his wine preference and his requirement of absolute privacy.

“It is a lovely night,” Ambrosi said.

The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal City—even the president of the United States, who’d visited last autumn. The rear passenger compartment was separated from the driver by frosted glass. All of the exterior windows were tinted and bulletproof, the sidewalls and undercarriage lined with steel.

“Yes, it is.” He was puffing away on a cigarette, enjoying the soothing feel of nicotine entering his bloodstream after a satisfying meal. “What have we learned of Father Tibor?”

He’d taken to speaking in the first person plural, practice that he hoped would come in handy during the years ahead. Popes had spoken that way for centuries. John Paul II was the first to abandon the habit and Clement XV had officially decreed it dead. But if the present pope was determined to discard all the time-honored traditions, Valendrea would be equally determined to resurrect them.

During dinner he hadn’t asked Ambrosi anything on the subject that weighed heavily on his mind, adhering to his rule of never discussing Vatican business anywhere but in the Vatican. He’d seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom he’d personally helped fall. But his car qualified as an extension of the Vatican, and Ambrosi daily ensured it was free of any listening devices.

A soft melody of Chopin spilled from the CD player. The music relaxed him, but also masked the conversation from any mobile eavesdropping devices.

“His name is Andrej Tibor,” Ambrosi said. “He worked in the Vatican from 1959 to 1967. After, he was an unremarkable priest who served many congregations before retiring two decades ago. He lives now in Romania and receives a monthly pension check that’s regularly cashed with his endorsement.”

Valendrea savored a deep drag on his cigarette. “So the inquiry of this day is, what does Clement want with that aging priest?”

“Surely it concerns Fatima.”

They’d just rounded Via Milazzo and were now speeding down Via Dei Fori Imperiali toward the Colosseum. He loved the way Rome clung to its past. He could easily envision emperors and popes enjoying the satisfaction of knowing that they could dominate something so spectacularly beautiful. One day he would savor that feeling as well. He was never going to be content with the scarlet biretta of a cardinal. He wanted to wear the
camauro,
reserved only for popes. Clement had rejected that old-style hat as anachronistic. But the red velvet cap trimmed in white fur would serve as one of many signs that the imperial papacy had returned. Western and Third World Catholics no longer would be allowed to dilute Latin dogma. The Church had become far more concerned with accommodating the world than with defending its faith. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and too many Protestant sects to count were cutting deeply into Catholic membership. And it was all the devil’s work. The one true apostolic church was in trouble, but he knew what its corpus needed—a firm hand. One that ensured priests obeyed, members stayed, and income rebounded. One he was more than willing to provide.

He felt a touch to his knee and looked away from the window. “Eminence, it’s just ahead,” Ambrosi said, pointing.

He glanced back out the window as the car turned and a progression of cafés, bistros, and flashy discos streamed by. They were on one of the lesser streets, Via Frattina, the sidewalks packed with night revelers.

“She’s staying in the hotel just ahead,” Ambrosi said. “I located the information on her credentials application filed in the security office.”

Ambrosi had been thorough, as usual. Valendrea was taking a chance visiting Katerina Lew unannounced, but he hoped the hectic night and the late hour would minimize any curious eyes. How to make actual contact was something he’d been considering. He didn’t particularly want to parade up to her room. Nor did he want Ambrosi doing that. But then he saw none of that would be necessary.

“Perhaps God is watching over our mission,” he said, gesturing to a woman strolling down the sidewalk toward an ivy-encased entrance for the hotel.

Ambrosi smiled. “Timing is everything.”

The driver was instructed to speed past the hotel and ease alongside the woman. Valendrea pressed a button and the rear window descended.

“Ms. Lew. I am Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. Perhaps you recall me from the tribunal this morning?”

She ceased her casual stride and stood facing the window. Her body was supple and petite. But the way she carried herself, how she planted her feet and considered his inquiry, the way her shoulders squared and her neck arched, signaled something more substantial in her character than her size might indicate. There was a languorous trait about her, as if a prince of the Catholic Church—the secretary of state, no less—approached her every day. But Valendrea also sensed something else. Ambition. And that perception instantly relaxed him. This might be far easier than he’d first imagined.

“Do you think we might have a conversation? Here in the car?”

She threw him a smile. “How could I refuse such a gracious request from the Vatican secretary of state?”

He opened the door and slid across the leather seat to give her room. She climbed inside, unbuttoning her fleece-lined jacket. Ambrosi closed the door behind her. Valendrea noticed a hike in her skirt as she settled into the seat.

The Mercedes inched forward, stopping a little way down a narrow alley. The crowds had been left behind. The driver exited and walked back to the end of the street, where Valendrea knew he would make certain no cars entered.

“This is Father Paolo Ambrosi, my chief assistant in the Secretariat of State.”

Katerina shook Ambrosi’s offered hand. Valendrea noticed Ambrosi’s eyes soften, enough to signal calm to their guest. Paolo knew exactly how to handle a situation.

Valendrea said, “We need to speak with you about an important matter we were hoping you might assist us on.”

“I fail to see how I could possibly help someone of your stature, Eminence.”

“You attended the tribunal hearing this morning. I assume Father Kealy requested your presence?”

“Is that what this is about? You concerned about bad press on what happened?”

He offered a self-deprecating expression. “With all the reporters that were present, I assure you bad press is not what this is about. Father Kealy’s fate is sealed, as I’m sure you, he, and all the press realized. This is about something much more important than one heretic.”

“Is what you’re about to say for the record?”

He allowed himself a smile. “Always the journalist. No, Ms. Lew, none of this is for the record. Still interested?”

He waited as she silently weighed her options. This was the moment when ambition must defeat good judgment.

“Okay,” she said. “Off the record. Go ahead.”

He was pleased. So far, so good. “This is about Colin Michener.”

Her eyes showed surprise.

“Yes, I’m aware of your relationship with the papal secretary. Quite a serious matter for a priest, especially one of his importance.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Her words carried the tone of denial. Perhaps now, he thought, she realized why he was so willing to trust her
off-the-record
assertion—this was about her, not him.

“Paolo witnessed your encounter with Michener this afternoon in the piazza. It was anything but cordial.
Bastard,
I believe, is what you called him.”

She cast a glance at his acolyte. “I don’t recall seeing him there.”

“St. Peter’s Square is a large place,” Ambrosi said in a low voice.

Valendrea said, “You are perhaps thinking, how could he have heard that? You barely whispered. Paolo is an excellent lip-reader. A talent that comes in handy, wouldn’t you say?” She seemed not to know how to respond, so he allowed her to linger a moment before saying, “Ms. Lew, I’m not trying to be threatening. Actually, Father Michener is about to embark on a journey for the pope. I need some assistance from you regarding that journey.”

“What could I possibly do?”

“Someone must monitor where he goes and what he does. You would be the ideal person for that.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because there was a time when you cared for him. Perhaps even loved him. You might even still. Many priests like Father Michener have known women. It’s the shame of our times. Men who care nothing about a vow to their God.” He paused. “Or for the feelings of the women they might hurt. I sense that you would not want anything to harm Father Michener.” He let the words take hold of her. “We believe there’s a problem developing, one that could indeed harm him. Not physically, you understand, but it could hurt his standing within the Church. Perhaps jeopardize his career. I’m trying to keep that from happening. If I were to charge someone from the Vatican with this task, that fact would be known within a matter of hours and the mission would fail. I like Father Michener. I would not want to see his career hurt. I need the secrecy you can provide to protect him.”

She motioned at Ambrosi. “Why not send the padre here?”

He was impressed with her spunk. “Father Ambrosi is too well known to accomplish the task. By a stroke of luck, the mission Father Michener has undertaken will take him to Romania, a place you know well. So you could appear without him asking too many questions. Assuming he even learned of your presence.”

“And the purpose of this visit to my homeland?”

He waved off the question. “That would only taint your report. Instead, just observe. That way, we don’t risk slanting your observations.”

“In another words, you’re not going to tell me.”

“Precisely.”

“And what would be the benefit of my doing this favor for you?”

He allowed a chuckle as he slid a cigar from a side pocket on the door. “Sadly, Clement XV will not last much longer. A conclave is approaching. When that happens, I can assure you that you will have a friend who will provide more than enough information to make your reports an important commodity in journalistic circles. Maybe enough to get you back to work with all those publishers who let you go.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed that you know things about me?”

“I’m not trying to impress you, Ms. Lew, only secure your assistance in return for something any journalist would die for.” He lit the cigar and savored a draw. He made no effort to crack the window before he exhaled a thick fog.

“This must be important to you,” she said.

He noticed how she phrased the statement. Not
important to the Church—important to you.
He decided to add a dash of truth to their discussion. “Enough that I’ve come to the streets of Rome. I assure you, I will keep my end of the arrangement. The next conclave will be a monumental one, and you will have a reliable source of firsthand information.”

She seemed to still be debating with herself. Maybe she’d thought Colin Michener was going to become the unnamed Vatican source she could quote to validate the stories she’d peddle. Here, though, was another opportunity. A lucrative offer. And all for such a simple task. He wasn’t asking her to steal or lie or cheat. Just take a trip back home and watch an old boyfriend for a few days.

“Let me think about it,” she finally said.

He sucked another lungful from the cigar. “I wouldn’t take too long. This is going to happen fast. I’ll phone at your hotel tomorrow, say two o’clock, for an answer.”

“Assuming I say yes, how do I report what I find?”

He motioned to Ambrosi. “My assistant will contact you. Never attempt to call me. Understand? He’ll find you.”

Ambrosi folded his hands across the front of his black cassock and Valendrea allowed him the pleasure of the moment. He wanted Katerina Lew to know that this priest was not someone she wanted to defy, and Ambrosi’s rigid pose communicated the message. He’d always liked that quality in Paolo. So reserved in public, so intense in private.

Valendrea reached beneath the seat and produced an envelope, which he handed across to his guest. “Ten thousand euros to help with airline tickets, hotel, whatever. If you decide to assist me, I would not expect you to fund the venture yourself. If you say no, keep the money for your trouble.”

He stretched an arm across her and opened the door. “I have enjoyed our conversation, Ms. Lew.”

She slipped out of the car, envelope in hand. He stared out into the night and said, “Your hotel is just back to the left on the main
via.
Have a nice evening.”

She said nothing and walked away. He pulled the door shut and whispered, “So predictable. She wants us to wait. But there’s no question what she’ll do.”

“It was almost too easy,” Ambrosi said.

“Precisely why I want you in Romania. This woman bears watching, and she’ll be easier to monitor than Michener. I’ve arranged with one of our corporate benefactors to have a private jet available. You leave in the morning. Since we already know where Michener is headed, get there first and wait. He should arrive by tomorrow evening, or the next day at the latest. Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on her and make sure she understands we want a return on our investment.”

Ambrosi nodded.

The driver returned and climbed behind the wheel. Ambrosi tapped on the glass and the car backed toward the
via.

Valendrea shifted his mood away from work.

“With all this intrigue over, perhaps a cognac and some Tchaikovsky before bed? Would you like that, Paolo?”